


Second's Not the Same

by alpha_exodus, SummerFrost



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Blow Jobs, Break Up, Drugs, Dysfunctional Relationships, Hate Sex, Healing, Infidelity, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, this whole thing is kinda rude but it gets better i promise, whew these tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 16:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13104186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerFrost/pseuds/SummerFrost
Summary: Bitty finds himself dating two amazing boys. Everything is perfect.  //  Kent was doing just fine before he saw his ex-boyfriend in a hotel bar.





	Second's Not the Same

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [PBJ_EpiFest_2017](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PBJ_EpiFest_2017) collection. 



> Media to be Remixed: Halsey's entire discography 
> 
> We've always wanted to do a collab, and this year's fest gave us the perfect opportunity! The media we remixed is a little out of the norm, but we both saw a common thread in a bunch of Halsey's songs and we thought it would be a cool idea to tie them all together.
> 
> (There are ten songs total referenced in this fic, if you can find them ;))
> 
> Title from Halsey's _Is There Somewhere?_

“Zimms, you know dating the nutritionist won’t make you, like, _win_ at dieting, right?” Parse asks, and Bitty stifles a squeak into his hand.

He’s tucked into the back corner of his office at his desk and he’s very, very sure he wasn’t supposed to hear that. _What?_ He knew— _everyone_ knows—that Parse is bi, but—

“Fuck off, man, you know that’s—oh, Jesus!” Jack Zimmermann, who is ostensibly incredibly straight and kind of scary, even if he is Bitty’s favorite because he actually follows the diet plan, says. Because he’s just walked a little farther into the office and seen Bitty, well, not hiding on _purpose,_ but.

Parse recovers first. He takes his snapback off his head and runs a hand through his hair, then smirks and says, “Wow, they really have you hiding out back there, huh?”

“Haha, um, yep!” Bitty laughs again. “I keep meanin’ to ask someone to help me rearrange or something ‘cause, you know, people keep walking in lookin’ for me and walking back out which is—”

“So you heard all that?” Jack asks, his voice flat.

Bitty’s fingers are tapping on his desk. He drags his teeth across his bottom lip and says, “Um, yeah. But I—”

“Do you want to go to dinner?”

Parse snorts.

Jack just stares at Bitty expectantly. His eyes are so blue and he has three days’ worth of stubble (not that Bitty’s been counting) and he can’t seriously be asking Bitty _out_ right now.

Bitty says, “Um.”

“Oh my God. Literally, what would you do without me?” Parse asks Jack, rolling his eyes. He punches him on the shoulder and walks over to where Bitty is, hopping up on Bitty’s desk. “’Sup, Bits?”

Bitty says, “Um,” again.

Parse hooks his foot under Bitty’s rolling chair and pulls Bitty closer until Bitty’s chest is a hair away from Parse’s shin. He can feel Parse’s track pants brushing against his dress shirt and Parse smells like sweat and body spray. It shouldn’t be attractive.

“You look great today, man. I love your shirt,” Parse tells him, like they’re having an entirely normal conversation and Jack Zimmermann isn’t ten feet away, waiting to hear if Bitty will go out with him.

Parse reaches over and runs his thumb along the line of Bitty’s collar. His nail drags against Bitty’s neck and it vibrates through Bitty’s entire body and it’s like it pulled all the air out of Bitty’s throat, it goes so dry, and _oh._ He thinks his hands are shaking.

“Lacoste?” Parse asks. Bitty nods, and Parse smiles at him like _he’s_ the one who guessed right. God, Bitty had thought—he’d suspected, maybe—that Parse had been flirting with him for weeks, but all that was nothing compared to how Parse is looking at him now. “Cool. Super cool. So, uh, Bitty?”

Bitty swallows. Parse’s hand is still on the side of his neck. “Um, yeah?”

“I was wondering, like, if you wanna grab dinner sometime?”

Bitty makes a coughing sound in the back of his throat to remind himself to breathe. He’s all flustered and hopelessly confused, and looking over at Jack doesn’t help at all because he’s just watching them calmly, like this isn’t _very weird._ He might even be smiling.

“Um,” Bitty manages, looking back at Parse. “Like, with—with you? Or?”

Parse laughs, then laughs harder when Bitty tries to glare at him, and pushes Bitty’s chair back away with his foot.

Bitty lifts his feet up and lets the momentum carry him into the wall. He bumps against it gently and winds up staring at both of them, pouty and wide-eyed. It feels like he’s been left out of some kind of joke and his heart is racing now, trying to figure out if he’s the punchline.

But then Parse says, “With both of us,” and Jack adds, “If you want,” and Bitty stops trying to tell his body to do anything.

Jack reaches behind himself and locks the door.

“Hey, Bits,” Parse says. “Wanna know a secret?”

Bitty is potentially about seventy percent sure he knows the secret. He says, “Oh, okay.”

“Zimms, c’mere.” Parse pivots on the desk so he’s turned towards Jack and holds his arms out towards him. “I miss you.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “You can’t just say that every time,” he says, but he smiles and goes over, and Parse reaches up to tangle his fingers in Jack’s hair and tugs him down into a kiss.

On the mouth.

Bitty is going to die.

Jack kisses Parse back hard, with his teeth, pushing into it so much that Parse has to drop a hand from Jack’s hair and brace himself on the desk to keep from toppling over. Bitty stares at the curve of Parse’s back and the way Jack’s stubbled jaw flexes when he swipes his tongue over Parse’s lip, and tries to figure out where he’d rather be.

Jack pulls away first, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re always so dramatic,” he murmurs, and Parse laughs with his eyes still closed.

“Um, so,” Bitty pipes up. “Sorry, I don’t—you want—?”

Parse opens his eyes and looks over at Bitty, resting his temple against Jack’s chest, then explains, “We, uh—we’re together, obviously. And we like you, like, a lot, man. We’re asking you on a date.”

“We should explain more,” Jack says. Both of his hands are on the desk, bracketing Parse’s thighs. “But maybe, uh, we could go to dinner first? And, uh. See how it feels?”

Bitty bites at his bottom lip and looks at the two of them. His heart is in his throat, like it knows what he’s going to say before he does.

“Yeah,” he tells them, and smiles. “I think that sounds really nice.”

xXx

Kent sees him first, across the room in the tiny-ass hotel bar, and immediately the smile drops from Kent’s face.

His blood runs cold and his heart is starting to crack painfully in his chest but he can’t stop staring, he _can’t_ —he’s transfixed by the fucking sight of him.

Of Bitty.

Bitty’s standing at the bar in a tailored suit and a pale pink tie, scrolling through his phone while he waits for a drink. There’s a guy next to him chatting his ear off, and Bitty occasionally pauses his scrolling to laugh at something the guy says.

Are they friends, maybe? Lovers?

_Fuck._

Jack sees Bitty only a moment later, and Kent supposes it says something about how their relationship stands nowadays that Jack’s voice is calm when he says, “Kenny, no.”

Kent opens his mouth to protest, but he can’t even do that because his voice is stuck, his throat clogged as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of cotton. It’s only then that he realizes he’s already halfway out of his chair, about to go to Bitty, drawn in like a shark seeking blood without even knowing it.

He sits down heavily. Fuck this.

Fuck everything.

He doesn’t know what to do now, so he picks up his glass of water and sips at it. He would give anything for a damn drink. Funny that Bitty’s the reason he fucking quit in the first place.

“We’re not going over there,” Jack says firmly, and Kent kind of wishes he could hit him.

Except he swore to Bitty a long time ago that he wouldn’t start fights like that anymore. Fuck it all.

He finally gets his throat to unstick. “But it’s _Bitty._ ”

“You know it’ll only end badly,” Jack says. And hell, since when has Jack been the voice of reason?

Since a lot of therapy, probably.

Kent takes one painful breath, then another. “I—I can’t just let him walk away.”

“Yes, you can,” Jack says.

Kent grits his teeth, fingers clenching at the wooden table as if they could sink right through it if he squeezed hard enough. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

“Kent—”

“I’m going over there,” Kent says, and he stands up, but Jack immediately puts a vice grip on his elbow.

“Kent, _please_.”

It’s then that Kent finally looks at Jack.

He looks… scared.

Kent swallows thickly and sits back down in his seat. “Sorry,” he says, and fuck, how many years did it take for him to be able to say that word so easily? Two little syllables, and years ago it might as well have been the death of him.

Jack takes a shaky breath, reaching over carefully to hold Kent’s hand. “It’s okay,” he says quietly, and it might as well be a whisper in the din of the bar.

Kent looks at Jack’s eyes, bright and sad, and it clicks. “Zimms,” he says. “I’m not leaving you.”

Jack seems surprised for a moment, and then he gives a weak laugh. “I’d believe you,” he says, and then he quotes Kent’s own words right back at him—“But it’s _Bitty_.”

Kent stares at him. There’s a certain truth floating in the back of his mind that he really should have known for a long time now, even though Jack’s never explicitly said it aloud. “You don’t want him anymore,” Kent says quietly, and it’s not a question.

Jack shakes his head anyway. “No.”

Fuck.

Jack doesn’t… fuck.

Kent has to look away. “Goddamnit, why am I the only one who’s still fucked up over this?”

“Dunno,” Jack says, lips curving into a sad smile. “I don’t think you’re fucked up, anyway. Just sensitive.”

Kent snorts at that—it’s something his mom has always said about him after his dad left, though maybe in kinder words. Then he catches sight of Bitty again, walking across the room, and his heart seizes again. He sighs roughly. “Fuck, though, why is he even here?”

Jack tries his best to answer, even though the question was rhetorical. “Business trip, maybe?”

Kent wants to roll his eyes, but honestly, he’s thrown enough stupid temper tantrums at Jack in his lifetime. Now is not the time to start another. “I meant existentially,” he mutters.

Jack shrugs. “Why are you here? And me?”

Kent snorts. “Therapy makes you so damn philosophical.”

“I think you appreciate it,” Jack says, and Kent chuckles, but he can’t resist turning around and taking another look at Bitty.

Immediately, he forgets that he’s not supposed to be staring. He finds himself following Bitty’s every move, watching as he finds a table with his companion and throws back a swig of his beer, Adam’s apple bobbing, cheeks red even though he’s barely started drinking.

“Kenny…” Jack says quietly.

Crack, crack, goes Kent’s heart.

He turns back around and pulls his arm away from Jack. God. He hates this.

He’s shaking as he hides his face in his hands.

“I—I want to see h-him.” His voice breaks as he says it. Just like his traitorous fucking heart breaking all over again, even though it’s been—

“Four years,” Jack fills in, and suddenly he sounds angry. “It’s been four years, Kent! He—he never even fucking called!”

“I _know_ ,” Kent says, because he _does_.

It hurt.

So much.

“God, I’m so fucking stupid,” Kent mumbles into his palms.

“No you’re not,” Jack says. “You’re just—still in love with him.”

Kent’s lip trembles for a brief moment. He takes a deep breath, trying to swallow down the guilt that’s threatening to choke him, and then he stares down at the table. “Yeah.”

“Thought so,” Jack says, and Kent sighs.

“Sorry.”

Jack reaches for Kent’s hand again, and Kent lets him take it. “Don’t apologize.”

Kent blinks at him. “Why?”

“Just because I don’t love him anymore doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.” And Jack’s eyes are suddenly soft in understanding—because Jack of all people knows that Kent’s really fucking terrible at letting go.

Kent shudders a breath, sliding his fingers over a nick in the table. “I wish I didn’t.”

“I know,” Jack says. “I wish you didn’t either.”

Kent closes his eyes.

Maybe this is it. Maybe he’s just going to let Bitty walk away again.

And maybe that’s for the best.

Except that his heart is trying to rip itself in two right now, and he’s got half a mind to head to the bar and down as many shots as he can get his hands on.

“Kenny?” Jack says, jolting him out of his brief fantasy.

“Look,” Kent says, “can we go? If you’re not gonna let me see him, I don’t want to—I can’t—” He lets his mouth click shut, overcome by the desperation building in his gut. He starts to stand.

“Wait,” Jack says.

“What?” Kent snaps, and Jack recoils. Fuck. “God, I’m sorry—look, I’m turning into a monster,” he mumbles bitterly.

Jack reaches over and squeezes his knee, letting out a long sigh. “You’re not a monster. You’re just… hurt.”

“But I shouldn’t be fucking hurting you because of it,” Kent mutters ruefully. “I’ve done enough of that, don’t you think?”

“Kent, listen to me,” Jack says, and Kent does. “If we leave now… you’re never going to stop thinking about this, are you? About what would’ve happened if you’d talked to him?”

Kent only has to think about it for a second. “Uh, yeah. Probably.” He hasn’t managed to scrub Bitty out of his mind for four years. There’s no way that’ll change in one night, not after seeing him like this.

“Thought so,” Jack says. Then he swallows. “You should—you should go, then,” he says, and looks at Bitty.

Kent stares at him. Fuck. “Wait… really?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, looking away. “Do what you need to do. If you want closure, or—I dunno. Whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?” Kent asks, feeling like he’s Eve, arm’s distance away from the apple that was her doom. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do,” Jack says seriously. “I trust you, Kenny.”

For a moment, Kent’s chest heaves, and he covers Jack’s hand on his knee with his own. “What if I—what if I wanted to sleep with him?”

Jack actually laughs. “Honestly, I’d kinda expect that. But even… even if you wanted to date him again—it’s fine. Just let me know, okay?”

It takes a moment for the meaning of the words to imprint itself in Kent’s brain. Suddenly, he feels nearly euphoric.

Fuck, he can see Bitty, talk to him, maybe even touch him again. God.

Kent can’t help grinning at Jack, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “You’re the fuckin’ best, Zimms.”

Jack looks embarrassed, smoothing his hair back down again. “Haven’t always been.”

“That’s the past,” Kent says, glancing back at Bitty. “This is now.”

Jack slowly nods. “Just… be careful, Kenny? For me?”

“I’m shit at that,” Kent says, pulling a face. Caution isn’t really his style, not when he’s feeling so fucking emotional, but. He can try.

“I know,” Jack says. “But… he broke your heart. You can’t forget that.”

Looking down at his water glass, Kent watches the condensation drip down the side and nods. “He broke yours too, you know.”

“Yeah,” Jack says roughly, and then clears his throat, a small, teasing smile appearing on his face. “There’s a reason I don’t want to date him anymore.”

Kent laughs, feeling a little hysterical as he pushes his chair back. “I’m insane, aren’t I?”

“No more insane than I am,” Jack says, shrugging, and Kent steps over to him and wraps him in a hug.

“Love you, Zimms,” he whispers, pressing the words into Jack’s neck.

Jack’s beaming at him as he pulls away. “Love you too,” Jack says sincerely, and then he punches Kent in the shoulder. “Go get ‘im.”

Kent swallows thickly, all the nervousness slamming back into his body at once. His palms are getting sweaty and he wipes them on his pants, looking across the room to where Bitty’s companion has just walked off towards the restroom. “Yeah,” he says, anxiety now a low, constant hum in his ears. “I’ll try.”

xXx

Bitty is humming to himself, flipping banana pancakes on the griddle, when the song changes abruptly. He smiles. He’s wearing an old Falc’s jersey and someone’s boxer briefs because he ran out of clothes two days ago but he doesn’t want to go home, and he recognizes the opening chords of _Bad at Love_ just in time for Kent’s arms to wrap around his middle.

“Got a boy back home in Michigan,” Kent sings into Bitty’s ear, off-pace and perfect, “but he tastes like Jack when I’m kissin’ him—”

“Really?” Bitty snorts, but he joins in by the end of the first half. “—now he’s gone and he’s callin’ me a bitch again.”

They keep singing and Kent lifts Bitty up by the waist, spinning him around with his legs kicking while he murmurs the pre-chorus in his ear. “I believe, I believe that we’re meant to be—”

Bitty turns his head and catches Kent in a kiss, giddy and distracted, but Kent pulls away to belt out the chorus and pushes Bitty against the island, hands skimming up and down his thighs, and Bitty gives up and sings along with him. They’re laughing through the second verse when the door opens, revealing Jack home from a morning run, and Bitty darts over and launches himself at him.

“Oof!” Jack catches Bitty with a single step backwards, beaming down at him, but they both stumble into the wall when Kent tackles them, still singing every lyric. Jack kisses Bitty’s forehead and talks over Kent. “Didn’t think I’d find you guys awake.”

Bitty pushes up on his toes and kisses Jack back, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. “I made breakfast, sweetpea.”

“You’re too good to us,” Jack tells him. He slides a hand into Kent’s hair, shoving his face into his neck to muffle his singing. “I bet Kenny didn’t help at all, eh?”

Bitty quirks his lips. “He certainly did not.”

Kent bites at Jack’s neck like the brat he is, rolling his hips against Jack’s thigh.

Bitty swats at him even as Jack thumps his head back against the wall. “Kenny, stop that! No sex before pancakes.”

It’s useless, though. Kent’s halfway through a hickey and Jack’s pupils are already blown, his hair dripping with sweat from the run and face still flushed, and really, Bitty isn’t that strong of a man to begin with.

“Oh, _fine,”_ he huffs, acting particularly put out for someone who’s about to fuck two professional athletes before ten AM, and Jack grins at him. “But one of y’all is blowing me.”

Kent lifts his head away from Jack’s neck and says, “Dibs.”

Jack furrows his eyebrows and asks so, so seriously, “Am I allowed to call next?”

Bitty’s not sure if he’s supposed to be in love yet. But he still thinks, _This is what it feels like,_ when Kent lifts him over one shoulder and carries him off to the bedroom like he’s something special, something they’ve won. _This is what it’ll always feel like._

It’s a good thing his pancakes taste just as good cold.

xXx

Kent feels hot and cold all at once as he walks toward Bitty’s table. He’s halfway across the bar when Bitty looks up and sees him coming.

Kent expects Bitty to be surprised, maybe, to show some kind of damned emotion—but no. Bitty just gives him a long look and then turns away, pulling out his phone, as if he expects Kent to turn around and fuck off just like that.

The worst part is that Kent almost does. He can’t do this if Bitty won’t even fucking _look_ _at him_ —except then Kent turns to look for Jack and Jack isn’t there anymore. He’s gone back to the hotel room, probably, safe from the inevitable explosion that’s going to happen when Bitty and Kent collide.

Well. There goes Kent’s safety net.

Goddamnit.

But Kent makes himself turn back to face Bitty anyway, because he’s going to fucking do this if it kills him. It’s now or never.

He clenches his fists and makes his way over to Bitty’s table.

And then he sort of just stands there and waits, because his voice seems to have abandoned him again and also he’s kind of out of breath from rushing across the room. Besides, he’s glad for an excuse to check Bitty out again. It’s been awhile, and fuck. Bitty looks… good.

Really good.

The light grey suit Bitty’s wearing works really well with his complexion—it’s not one Kent remembers him owning, but then again, it’s been four years. He’s clean-shaven, and Kent’s surprised to see that he’s sporting the undercut he had when they’d first met, the one that Kent’s always thought was sexy as fuck but didn’t mention aloud nearly as much as Bitty deserved. Bitty’s cheeks are lightly flushed from the nearly empty pint he has resting near him on the table, and his body is as lithe as ever.

He looks good. Kent wants to touch him.

Except there’s no chance he can do that because Bitty’s still not even looking at Kent.

Kent wants to groan. Shit, he’s gotta say something, doesn’t he?

He settles for clearing his throat. Loudly.

It works. Finally, Bitty’s eyes slide up to him in probably the judgiest way possible. He looks Kent up and down, turning the screen on his phone off and setting it on the table. Then, with derision practically dripping from his tone, Bitty says, “Can I help you?”

“Yeah,” Kent says, though it comes out wispy as fuck and he has to clear his throat again, embarrassingly enough. He tries his best to paste a smirk on his face. “Someone told me there’s a guy over here who’s got some good advice on athlete nutrition?”

“Well, unfortunately I’m not on the job right now, so you can tell that someone to go fuck off, thank you kindly.” Bitty glares at him in a way that looks neither thankful nor kind, and Kent’s filled with the same kind of misery that always wraps its hands around his throat when Bitty’s mad at him.

Although it’s not like Bitty’s had the opportunity to be mad at him for four years, so. It’s been a while.

Kent resists the urge deep in his bones to drop to his knees and beg Bitty to _just fucking listen to him_ —partially because he suspects that Bitty will like that all too much, and partially because, yeah, Kent’s still really fucking mad at Bitty, okay?

Bitty _left_.

Kent was trying so fucking hard. So was Jack, honestly—Bitty was such a good influence on them, always encouraging them to be better but still loving them the way they were—or so Kent _thought_ , anyway, and they were so _happy_ —

And then Bitty left without a word, dumping them flat as if none of it ever meant anything at all.

“You do realize your thoughts are written all over your face, right?” Bitty says, in a low, clipped tone that Kent can barely hear over the noise of the bar. “So just say whatever the fuck it is you wanted to say when you came over here and get it over with. I ain’t got time for this.”

Somewhere in the middle of that speech, Kent’s jaw had fallen open. He forces it shut with a sharp click, looking away, anger trying its damned best to bubble up in his stomach.

But he won’t let it. Not anymore.

The truth is that he has so many things that he’s wanted to say to Bitty since he left. But it seems like every one of those things decided to leak right out of his brain on the way over here, and now all he can think about is the fact that he’d do anything to be able to touch Bitty again, to pull him in for a hug and kiss him and strip them both bare until Bitty could finally fucking remember how _good_ it used to be—

Kent’s not even lying to himself anymore. He knows they were all a little fucked up. He knows it wasn’t all good, and that’s why Bitty ran away.

But Kent still wants him.

And that might just be the most fucked up thing of all.

So when he finally opens his mouth, the only thing he can think to say is, “You look good.”

Slowly, Bitty blinks at him. “Pardon?”

“You look really good,” Kent repeats, voice rusty. “I mean. That suit looks nice on you. And your haircut is sex—uh, nice.”

Bitty’s eyebrows shoot up. “Kent Parson,” he growls, and fuck, it’s embarrassing how much Kent’s body wants to respond to his name on Bitty’s lips. “You mean to tell me that you came all the way over here to _pick me up?_ ”

Kent swallows, because no, not really. But. Kind of? He makes a face and shrugs. “I guess,” he says. “I mis—”

“If you say ‘I miss you’, I swear to God, I will punch you in the middle of this fucking bar,” Bitty grits out, crossing his arms.

Fuck. Kent’s face goes red. “Fine, then,” he says. “I wanna fuck.”

“Thought you had Jack for that?” Bitty mutters, and Kent sees him scan the room.

Joke’s on him. Jack’s already gone.

“Sure, but.” Kent stops, shrugging. “It’d be fun.” The understatement of the century in so many different ways.

Bitty actually rolls his eyes at that. “Right. Because fucking your exes is _oh so much fun_ , huh, Parson?”

Kent winces. Never in his life has Bitty called Kent ‘Parson’.

He fucking hates this.

He should walk away. Bitty’s obviously not going to go along with this. It’s better to cut his losses here, to go back to the hotel room and crawl into bed, into Jack’s arms, where he can let go and cry his heart out in peace.

Kent’s lip is trembling as he takes a step back, turning away. “Fine,” he says. “Have it your way. I hope I never see you again, Bittle.” He pushes as much venom into his words as he can, because fuck if he’s going to let Bitty see how sad he is—Bitty doesn’t _deserve_ to see, not with that fucking attitude—

But Bitty interrupts his thoughts at the last minute, grabbing onto Kent’s sleeve just as he’s turning away. “Wait.”

Kent freezes, daring to glance back at him again. “What?” he snaps.

Bitty lets out a long sigh. “Fine,” he says. “Come upstairs with me.” He’s not meeting Kent’s eyes, but he pushes his chair back and stands nonetheless.

Kent sucks in a breath. “Oh…kay? And what about your, uh. Friend?” He still has no idea what their relationship is, but Bitty doesn’t elaborate.

“I just texted him,” Bitty says, grabbing his phone and shoving it roughly into his pocket. Then he pushes past Kent toward the elevators.

Kent cannot even fucking believe that worked. He’s stunned into silence.

When Kent still hasn’t moved, Bitty looks back at him and says, “Do you wanna do this or not?”

Kent doesn’t need more incentive to give an immediate nod, his breath speeding as he follows.

xXx

The club is dark, so loud it’s almost quiet, and Bitty can’t breathe.

Kenny is latched onto his throat—he always goes for the throat—and Jack is at his back, clutching at his hips just the right side of too tight and sighing into his hair, and it’s a bit like Bitty could suffocate and entirely like he’s going to live forever, like this moment will be the only thing he ever needs again, and—

Jack shoves Bitty away. Bitty yelps and knocks heads with Parse hard enough to bring tears pricking to his eyes because it _hurts_ and Kent’s teeth catch wrong against Bitty’s neck, a sharp press of canine.

“Jack, what the _fuck!”_ Kent spits, his hand curled around the back of Bitty’s head protectively. He won’t let Bitty turn it to look at Jack.

Bitty hides his face in the side of Kent’s hair, head throbbing, but he can hear Jack say, “Camera,” and Kent’s answering _Jesus Christ._

“They’re taking _selfies,_ Jack, what the fuck—”

“I _told_ you I didn’t want to come—”

 _“Bitty_ wanted to!” Kent snaps, and that’s not fair, Bitty thinks, but his head hurts and Kent is holding him and he needs someone to do it. “It’s his fucking birthday, Jack, Jesus Christ.”

Bitty finally wriggles around so he can look at Jack and says, “It’s fine, we can—”

“What if they—” Jack looks panicked. Bitty’s head hurts. “What if they see—in the pictures—I can’t—”

“Zimms,” Kent says.

“If they go online—Parse, I can’t—I need—”

 _“Zimms!”_ Kent shouts, even louder than he needs to over the music. Bitty flinches away from him and presses at the sore spot on his temple. “With me. Now.”

Bitty squeezes his eyes shut and presses harder. Someone pulls his hand away and Kent murmurs, “Gonna be okay, baby, wait here?”

“Fuck,” Bitty mutters, mostly to himself, but Kent and Jack vanish into the crowd. His head is still throbbing but it’s easier to think again, and he can’t let his boyfriends deal with this _alone._ And the thing is that Jack’s not worried for nothing—Bitty’s seen old pictures of Kent in the tabloids, shots of him with old boyfriends of him and Jack’s—and Jack looks so freaked out and that’s not right, it’s Bitty’s _fault,_ he shouldn’t have asked them to take him dancing—

It doesn’t matter. He needs to find Jack and Kenny. They’re probably in a bathroom, based on the direction they walked off in, letting Jack calm down somewhere private, so Bitty massages the tension out of his jaw and starts weaving through the oblivious crowd, the press of bodies that doesn’t care about him at all.

Bitty slips inside the men’s room and shuts out the sounds of the club behind him, leaving everything sounding muffled in that far-off dreamy way, and watches Kent drop two pills into Jack’s hand.

“—eveything up, Jack,” Kent is saying. “Every _goddamn_ time.”

Jack doesn’t answer him, because Jack sees Bitty.

Bitty’s head hurts. He can’t feel his face.

Jack’s face is ghost-white and his hands are shaking. He swallows both pills dry and doesn’t look away.

Kent looks over at Bitty too and his expression warps for one, two seconds before he fixes it and he’s all business again. Media face.

Bitty’s voice isn’t steady and he feels like he should be holding a microphone and his head hurts. He accuses, “His file says he’s clean.”

“He’s not a file,” Kent says. Jack turns on the faucet and gulps down handfuls of water. “And I’ve got it under control.”

“You don’t,” Bitty says, but Jack slumps to the ground with his head between his knees and Bitty follows him, running fingers through Jack’s hair, bruising temple pressed against his face. He looks up at Kent. “What’d you give him?”

Kent gets down on the floor too, kneeling. Bitty makes a mental note to take everything to the dry cleaner’s next week, in spite of everything.

“Benzos,” Kent tells him. “They’re prescription. Just, you know. Not his.”

There’s a reason it’s in the file. It was never really Bitty’s job, except it always was, just like it was everyone’s. _Zimmermann sprained his wrist and all they let me give him was ibuprofen._ The overflowing walk-in closet and the empty medicine cabinet.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bitty asks. He doesn’t want it to be the only part he cares about, but it is.

“We didn’t wanna worry you,” Kent tells him. He reaches out and touches Bitty’s cheek, traces apologetic fingers across the uneven bite mark on his neck. “And he’s getting _better,_ okay? And I’m the only one who knows where they are, so it’s not like he’ll—babe, we’d trust you with anything, you _know_ that, but if George finds out—”

Bitty closes his eyes, pressed up against Jack’s side. He can feel the heaving of Jack’s chest slowing down and the shaking fading away. He thinks about all the people he’d kill for it to never come back again and the way Jack’s eyes feel on him from between his thighs and how nothing, nothing at all, could replace all the whispered things they put in his chest.

“I should know where you keep them,” he says, without looking up, voice steady. “Just in case.”

xXx

Kent thinks the elevator ride up to whatever floor Bitty’s on might’ve been awkward, except that a) thankfully they’re alone and b) Bitty immediately takes it upon himself to push Kent into the wall and kiss him so hard Kent can feel the elevator jolt.

“Fuck,” Kent groans, and Bitty kisses him again, again, and Kent’s pretty sure he’s just cut his lip on his own teeth but he doesn’t fucking care. If Bitty tastes blood in Kent’s mouth it doesn’t deter him, and instead he twists his tongue against Kent’s, holding Kent tightly to the elevator wall as if _Kent’s_ the one that might run away from this.

“Bitty,” Kent gasps after a moment. “There’s probably—cameras.”

Bitty snorts. “You never cared about getting caught before, did you?” he asks, mouth curled into a vicious frown, and fuck.

That’s a punch in the gut. A low blow, and Kent’s sure Bitty knows it.

Not to mention it’s fucking unfair.

Okay, yeah, Kent used to sleep around on Jack. And maybe he let himself get caught doing it a few times in the seedy tabloids, but he and Jack were never actually _dating_ when he did it, and anyway it was all to make Jack jealous in the first place.

And Kent never cheated on Bitty. Ever. So Bitty can suck his dick.

Kent’s about to say something to that effect, but Bitty presses his mouth to Kent’s again before he can even respond, and then the elevator dings and they’ve reached their floor. Thank God no one else had stopped it on their way up. Kent doesn’t need to have new rumors circulating about him.

Bitty literally drags him by the wrist to the last room in the hallway, not even letting go while he fumbles with his wallet, trying to get the keycard for the door out. “Look,” Kent says, frowning. “I’m not going to run off on you.”

He’s never been the one who runs away. No, that was always Jack, every time they got into a fight that was too much for him. And then Bitty, just the once—but that’s the time that hurt worst of all.

Because Bitty never came back.

Except now he’s here, eyeing Kent suspiciously but dropping his wrist anyway. Then he finally succeeds at wrangling his keycard, and he swipes it and opens the door, crossing over to turn on one of the lamps by the bed.

Kent follows, and he’s barely taken three steps into the room when Bitty strides back over and surges against him, pushing him into the wall and kissing him soundly.

Damn, where did Bitty find this sudden confidence? He certainly hadn’t been like this when they’d still been together, except maybe toward the very end—and maybe it’s anger, or—

Or maybe he learned it with someone else.

Fuck.

Kent’s getting annoyingly jealous thinking about all the other men Bitty could’ve been with in the past four years, so he focuses on kissing Bitty instead, giving as much as he gets, biting at Bitty’s lips and pressing their hips together so Bitty can feel that he’s already really fucking hard. Hell, he’ll probably come the second Bitty touches his dick.

He blames it on the fact that he’s had way too many jerk-off daydreams imagining this very situation—he _wanted_ to run into Bitty out of the blue, wanted to talk to him, wanted to coax him into fucking because it seemed like the most likely way to get he’d dreamed about.

Looks like he’d been right.

Of course, he also dreamed about Bitty running right back into his and Jack’s arms, and that’s obviously not happening, so.

“Would ya stop _thinking_?” Bitty hisses, pulling back and looking at him.

“Uh, shit, yeah. Sorry,” Kent mumbles.

“Don’t waste your apology on that of all things,” Bitty says, rolling his eyes, and damn, Kent really forgot just how fucking passive aggressive Bitty is, didn’t he?

He also seems to have forgotten that he thinks that same passive aggressiveness is kinda hot. Unfortunately. It’s pretty hard to have an argument with a dude when you also really wanna get into his pants.

So when Bitty gives him a _look_ , the same kind of look he used to give Jack and Kent right after a fight, the same look that meant he was about to fuck one of them until they forgot their own name—God, pleasure spikes in Kent’s veins and he groans unprovoked, sliding his hands onto Bitty’s waist and pulling him in closer, moving in to kiss him again—

Except then Bitty makes a disgruntled noise and grabs Kent’s wrists, pulling them up above Kent’s head and pinning them there with one hand.

 _Holy shit_.

“Nuh-uh,” Bitty says, looking him in the eyes. “You’re not the one in charge here, Parson.”

Kent grits his teeth. There’s his last name again, grating on his nerves—but this time Bitty’s gone and made it sexy, and Kent kind of hates himself for liking it even as his dick pulses in his pants.

He wanted to be closer to Bitty. That’s all.

Just, not like this.

But Bitty seems to notice that he’s elicited a reaction because he grins sharply, pressing his hips against Kent’s, letting him feel that Bitty is just as hard as Kent is.

“Fuck,” Kent breathes.

“Like that, huh?” Bitty says, raising an eyebrow. When Kent doesn’t say anything, he takes the opportunity to lean in and start mouthing at Kent’s neck, breath hot and heavy against Kent’s skin, fuck—

“Please,” Kent gasps, almost without thinking, because he thinks he might die if Bitty doesn’t give him more.

“Begging already, huh?” Bitty says, voice low, and he’s fucking _enjoying_ this, isn’t he? Lording his power over Kent out of spite.

The worst part is that even though this is honestly kind of fun, Kent’s never wished more that Bitty still loved him. But that’s not going to happen, so he’s gonna take what he can fucking get.

Bitty takes advantage of Kent’s silence to bite at the hollow above his collarbone, making Kent groan. Then he suckles there, hard enough that Kent’s sure he’ll leave a mark, and the hand that isn’t holding Kent in place drifts down to Kent’s zipper.

Kent’s always been impressed by how fast Bitty’s able to undo other people’s pants. This time is no different—it’s barely been ten seconds before Bitty’s tugging the waistband of Kent’s boxers down over his cock, staring down at it with half-lidded eyes as it bobs free.

God, Bitty’s so fucking hot.

“Keep your hands there,” Bitty instructs, and Kent gives a strangled groan of assent.

Then Bitty drops to his knees. _Fuck._

“Bitty—” Kent says, but cuts himself off.

Bitty pauses, hovering with his mouth inches from Kent’s dick, close enough that Kent can feel Bitty’s breath ghosting over his skin. God. “What?” Bitty asks.

“Never mind,” Kent says, shaking his head. He’s going to come like, immediately, but then he figures he’ll come just as fast no matter _what_ Bitty does so it won’t matter if he warns Bitty or not.

Bitty shrugs, gives him a look that seems to say ‘ _fine, your loss_ ,’ and leans in to suck Kent into his mouth.

“Oh fuck— _fuck_ ,” Kent groans, knocking his head back against the wall so hard it hurts. It’s taking all of his strength not to reach down and slide his hands into Bitty’s hair, but Bitty told him to stay put and so he does—

And then Bitty fucking deep-throats him and Kent just barely refrains from bucking his hips into Bitty’s mouth. “Nngh, oh _shit—_ ”

If Bitty could smirk right now, Kent gets the feeling he would. Instead Bitty continues to suck him down, over and over, all slick heat and wet, debauched sounds of his mouth moving on Kent’s skin.

One minute and five seconds in, Kent thinks he’s probably going to come.

Except that one minute and six seconds in, Kent feels his phone start to buzz in his back pocket, and the opening chords of _Bad at Love_ start to play.

He forgot to turn the ringer off. Shit.

Bitty gives him a look that could kill, pulling off of his dick with a wet pop. “Really?” he says, and Kent’s torn between grabbing for his phone and obeying Bitty’s order to stay put. But Bitty simply reaches around him and digs Kent’s phone out of his back pocket, eyes flicking over the screen—

It’s Jack.

Fuck, Kent forgot to text him, didn’t he?

A similar thought seems to occur to Bitty because the force of his glare intensifies tenfold. “Please, _please_ fucking tell me he knows about this, Kent Parson, or I swear to God—”

“He does!” Kent says quickly. “I mean, not _exactly_ , but, uh. He knew what I wanted to do?”

“Kent _Parson_ ,” Bitty says in warning, and Kent tries not to feel happy that at least Bitty said his first name this time.

“He said it was okay!” Kent tries to tell him, but Bitty just continues to glare at him, and Kent’s phone continues to play that fucking song. So Kent finally groans and reaches down to snatch it out of Bitty’s hand, swiping to answer the call. “Hey,” he says, stepping out from between Bitty and the wall. “What’s up?”

“Oh,” Jack says, as if those three words had explained everything.

Kent chances a look at Bitty, who’s standing there with his arms crossed. “‘Oh’ _what?_ ” Kent asks, bewildered.

Jack chuckles, low and dry, and Kent’s embarrassed to feel himself start to harden again from where he’d gone a little soft before—he’s not really ashamed because it’s happening, but because Bitty can _see_ it. Kent angles himself away from Bitty the best he can without being awkward given that Bitty’s leaning against the wall right next to him, and he pulls his boxers back up but leaves his pants undone.

“That’s your ‘I’m in the middle of sex right now’ voice,” Jack says, and then he chuckles again, and fuck, Kent loves him.

He loves him for his laugh and for how well he knows Kent and for the fact that he’s sitting there, back in their shared hotel room, chuckling about the fact that Kent’s fucking their shared ex.

“Yeah, you got me,” Kent says, and he can’t keep the emotion from his voice, affection trickling in until it’s obvious what he’s feeling.

He swallows it down the best he can, because he loves Jack, but.

He still wants this so damn bad. Wants _Bitty_.

Holding back a sigh, he looks up at the ceiling and asks, “So it’s—it’s definitely okay, right? You don’t mind?”

“Yeah, Kenny,” Jack says. “Just tell me all about it when you get back?”

Kent grins. “’Course,” he says, and he lets his grin soften. “Sure you don’t wanna…?”

“Join? Oh, uh. No, that’s all right,” Jack says, gently but firmly, and Kent nods even though Jack can’t see him. Then, quieter, Jack asks, “How is he?”

“Good, I think,” Kent says. “I’ll, um. Keep you updated?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, snorting. “Gonna give me a play-by-play, Kenny?”

“Shut up,” Kent grumbles, grinning again. “I’m gonna go—you know.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “See you soon.”

“See ya.”

Kent hangs up, shoving his phone back into his pocket and turning back to Bitty—and Bitty’s smiling.

Bitty seems to realize that fact only a second after Kent does, and the smile abruptly drops on his face. “Um,” Bitty says, and then clears his throat. “I, um. I can’t believe that’s still your ringtone.” He gestures at Kent’s pocket.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Kent says, shrugging, because he’s told himself over and over again that it doesn’t _mean_ anything—but now that it’s all been dragged out in front of Bitty it’s hard to make himself keep believing the lie. “I mean, I fuckin’ love Halsey.”

Bitty laughs then, and Kent thinks it might be the first genuine laugh he’s let out all night. “Yeah. I remember,” Bitty says. Then he sighs, a slight flush in his cheeks, and Kent wonders why until he adds, “I forgot how much I liked her music. I, um. Haven’t listened to it in a while, just cuz. Um. You know.”

Of course Kent knows. Kent gave Bitty one of her albums for his birthday, after all.

Kent tries not to think about the obvious fact that Bitty’s done everything he possibly could to cut Kent out of his life, and instead he pulls his phone out of his pocket, thumbing through the menu and opening up his music app. “Well, I have all of her songs, so we can listen if you wanna.” He’s mostly joking, but then Bitty grabs his phone out of his hand, looking intrigued.

“Has she released anything new?” Bitty asks, scrolling through the song list as he heads over to sit on the edge of the king-sized bed that dominates the room. Kent has no choice but to follow, sitting close enough that even though they’re not quite touching, it’s a close call.

“Not lately,” Kent says, and he’s a little surprised that they’re actually having a conversation about this but he can’t say he’s complaining.

He loves being with Bitty in any context. He always has.

“Huh,” Bitty says. “Well, maybe she’ll drop an album soon?” He scrolls through Kent’s phone and then picks a song— _Bad at Love_ again—and then he throws the phone down on the bedspread behind them.

“Shit, I hope so,” Kent says, grinning. “I never did get to see her in concert.”

“Me neither,” Bitty says ruefully.

Kent laughs “Maybe—” Maybe they could go together.

But fuck, he can’t say that.

Bitty raises his eyebrows. “Maybe what?”

“Nothing,” Kent says, and he’s silent for a moment, but then the chorus comes on as a thankful distraction and he chimes in loudly, throwing himself backwards on the bed with a dramatic expression. “ _I’m baaaad at looooove!_ ”

Bitty looks like he’s just barely keeping a straight face, so Kent keeps singing in the most ridiculous way possible, rolling over on the bed with an imaginary microphone held to his mouth until Bitty finally lets out a peal of laughter. “Lord,” Bitty says, snickering and shaking his head. “You’re somethin’.”

Kent grins, sitting up so he can lean in obnoxiously close to Bitty, and then he starts belting out the second verse.

xXx

“Open the _fucking door!”_ Kent shouts. Something slams against it, probably his body, and Bitty shoves his face against Jack’s chest. “God—fucking— _dammit_ , Jack!”

It’s nearly three AM and Kenny bailed so fast after the game they lost this afternoon that Bitty took his duffel home for him, which means he has Kent’s keys. He doesn’t know why he did that. If he hadn’t—

“You can’t leave me out here!” Kent says, but Jack still isn’t moving, so maybe he can. “Where the fuck am I supposed to go?”

Bitty sucks in a breath and looks up at Jack. His face is pale, but not panic attack-pale. Angry pale.

Bitty says, “Jack, maybe—”

“He’s drunk, Bitty,” Jack tells him flatly. “He knows better than to come home like this.”

Kent bangs on the door again. _“Jack.”_

“You can’t—” Bitty’s voice cracks. His chest hurts and he can feel the tears welling up and he doesn’t know what to _do,_ he just wants Kenny home and Jack okay and maybe those can’t both happen. “We can’t let him stay out there, Jack, what if—”

“We can,” Jack cuts in. He pulls away from Bitty and pounds a fist on the door, back at Kent. “Shut the fuck _up,_ Parse! You’ll wake up our neighbors.”

 _“Good!”_ Kent snarls, and Jack barks out a laugh in disbelief. “I want them to—to see! Look what you’re fucking doing, Zimms. _Look.”_

Jack throws his hands up and fists them in his hair. Bitty wraps his arms around himself and sobs. He doesn’t understand what’s happening or how to make it stop and Jack’s never been so _angry,_ not at them, and he feels ripped open and pulled in every direction, like—

“You’re scaring Bitty,” Jack hisses through the door. _“Leave, Parse.”_

Everything goes quiet.

Parse asks, “Bitty’s there?”

Bitty blinks the tears out of his eyes and looks at Jack, wide-eyed. Jack shakes his head.

“Bitty, baby,” Parse says, desperate now, all the anger he was hurtling at Jack dried up and replaced with frantic pleading, like he’s a completely different person. “Baby, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—please let me in, baby, I promise I won’t fight anymore, I just—I love you. I just love you so much. I wanna come home, baby, please.”

“Jack,” Bitty begs.

Nothing changes in Jack’s face.

Bitty’s heart is breaking.

Jack stares at Bitty, everything about his face cold and sharp and—and like _pity,_ like how his Mama used to look at him when he came home with scraped up knees he couldn’t explain away, and it would make Bitty angry back if he had anything in him that wasn’t clinging to the sound of Kenny’s broken voice.

“I’m going to bed,” Jack tells him, casually, like he’s just looked up from a book and realized what time it is. “I think you should too.”

 _Who are you?_ Bitty thinks. Doesn’t know how to say it. Wants to touch him, somewhere, anywhere that would feel like skin.

He swallows the lump in his throat and says, “I’m staying with him.”

“It’s my apartment,” Jack answers evenly. “You will not let him inside.”

Bitty tries to laugh. Barely any sound comes out and it tears up his throat like he screamed. He doesn’t try to say anything else when he goes to the door and drops down to the ground against it, pressing his forehead to the wood.

At some point Jack moves away, back to the bedroom probably, but Bitty barely hears it over the sound of Kent’s tentative, “Bitty?”

“I’m here, sweetheart,” Bitty croaks, tears slipping into his mouth when he tries to talk.

There’s a thump outside—Parse sliding to the floor too. “Baby, I’m not even that drunk, please—please, I miss you, please let me in, okay?”

Bitty feels like he’s gasping for air, wonders if Kent can hear his breathing through the wall. “Jack said—”

“He won’t be mad at you, I promise,” Kent soothes. “It’s my fault, okay? I fucked up and he’s mad at me and I’ll take all the blame, okay? I won’t let him be mad at you. I can’t—please don’t make me alone, Bitty, _please,_ I can’t—I can’t—”

Bitty reaches up and unlocks the door before he can stop himself and pulls it open, and then Kenny is in his arms and shaking so gently that Bitty wouldn’t even feel it if Kent weren’t his whole world right then.

He smells like whiskey.

Tastes like it too, when he slips his tongue into Bitty’s mouth.

Bitty pushes him away gently, just enough to stop the kiss and look in his eyes. “Baby, we can’t—you’re so drunk.”

“’M not, ’m not,” Kent insists, his words slurring now that he’s not yelling them, pupils thick and dark, and his hands are all over Bitty’s body. “Baby, I wouldn’t—I just drank, like, a little, okay, but I _wouldn’t_ and I’m fine, I really didn’t. Please, you believe me, right? Jack doesn’t, but you do.”

Bitty traces his thumb along Kent’s jaw. “Kenny—”

“You’re the one who really loves me,” Kent says quietly, hands still moving, Bitty’s thighs and hips and the flat of his stomach, lips at his neck and pressing harder when Bitty shivers. “I knew you would be. I knew, Bits. I knew, I knew, let me love you, please let me show you, I just want you so much baby, I need you. Let me, let me.”

Bitty’s head is buzzing and his hands are in Kent’s hair somehow and he closes his eyes when Kent finds his lips again, breathes in the sharp alcohol sting and holds it in his bruised lungs like he’s shotgunning, like he can get drunk too.

“Kenny,” he whispers, and it should mean _stop_ but it doesn’t, it never would, not for them. Not for Kenny’s hands at his shorts or the soft murmur of _‘Bits, love you, love you,’_ or inevitable tightening of his fingers in Kenny’s hair. “I do love you, sweetheart, I do. It’s okay now, you’re home.”

Kent whines quietly and nuzzles against Bitty’s neck before he slips his hand into Bitty’s underwear. It’s loose and fumbling, the angle awkward because Kent won’t put space between their bodies and Bitty is too busy pressing kisses against Kent’s face. It still feels too good. He still wants to cry.

Kent’s hair is already ruined from Bitty’s hands, sticking up every which way, his eyes so earnest and shiny looking up at Bitty’s face, all his normal bravado during sex stripped away. He looks how Bitty feels. Raw, scared, too alive. Like Jack is down the hall and they’ll never tell him, this secret thing, the carpet scraping against Bitty’s ass when he rolls his hips and Kenny sighs into his mouth.

What would they say? Bitty leaves it all in crescent marks dug into Kent’s shoulder and hates himself and loves, loves Kenny, will never believe a word he says again and knows it won’t matter. What could?

Kenny brings him off in the foyer of their boyfriend’s apartment and shushes Bitty’s tears, gently guides his hand away when he tries to reciprocate, their fingers laced together. They climb over the side of the couch and fall asleep there, clinging to each other where they know Jack will see.

_Look what we did. We’ll never tell you._

They wake up and Jack is gone.

Two pairs of shoes are missing from the foyer. The master bedroom door is open and the bed is neatly made, and Kent’s rescued duffel is the only one left.

“He’ll come back,” Kent tells Bitty. He’s holding him in the spare bedroom, the pill bottle Jack didn’t manage to find clutched in one hand. The other hand is in Bitty’s hair, keeping him in place. “It’s okay, he’ll come back.”

“He left,” Bitty says, everything out of order. His throat is still raw even though he was never the one screaming.

“He always leaves me.” Kent tosses the pill bottle onto the nightstand and pulls Bitty down onto the bed with him, curling around him from behind. “You will too, one day. Everyone does.”

Bitty closes his eyes and shrinks everything down to the feeling of Kent’s arms, the puff of breath on the back of his neck. “Never,” he swears. “I don’t believe you.”

Kent laughs and doesn’t answer except by nuzzling closer.

Bitty traces his hand along the curve of Kent’s arm. “How’s your head?”

“Oh, I actively wanna fucking die,” Kent says. “Feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it.”

“Good,” Bitty tells him. “You do deserve it.”

Kent makes grumbly noises against Bitty’s neck. “I know. I’ll do better, I promise.” He pauses, taking a shuddering breath. “Can’t believe you love me anyway.”

Bitty sits up suddenly, pulling at Kent’s hand. “C’mon.”

“What?” Kent asks, but he stumbles to his feet when Bitty tugs at him again. “Babe—”

“I wanna do something,” Bitty says, and heads back to the master to get dressed. It says a lot about Kent, about who they are, that he follows without asking again.

They take Bitty’s beat up Ford two cities over, far enough away that Kent isn’t a local celebrity anymore, and Bitty drives around until they find a tattoo place that looks like they’ll take walk-ins.

Bitty makes Kent sit in the waiting room while he talks to the artist and then has him swear not to look while the tattooing happens, gritting his teeth and squeezing Kent’s hand the entire time. Kent sweet-talks the woman running the front of house into letting him change the music and they sing along to Halsey, Kent’s voice low and steady and Bitty’s thready whenever the artist makes another pass across his shoulder.

“Mama’d kill me if we still talked,” Bitty says, half-joking.

Kent kisses his knuckles and sings the next chorus a little softer.

When it’s over, Bitty and Kent look at the same time, staring at Bitty’s shoulder in a mirror and ignoring the way the artist is watching them. Nothing but Kenny, his fingers tracing just outside the ink, his eyes watching Bitty in the mirror until they well up with tears.

“I told you,” Bitty whispers, kissing, kissing him, staring at his shirt hanging from the chair and at nothing at all. The music is still playing: _Is there somewhere you can meet me?_ Hands in Kenny’s hair, his burning shoulder. “I told you, baby,” he says again. “Never.”

Jack comes home three days later and doesn’t even have to fumble for his keys at the door. They left it open for him.

xXx

Bitty’s dancing around the room in his undershirt and boxers and a pair of tube socks, expression open and free, and Kent could watch him forever.

The current song ends, and Kent stands from the bed with a grin, catching Bitty as he spins into him, laughing, laughing. “Lord,” Bitty says, and for just a moment, Kent catches a glimpse of the old Bitty, the one he was in love with four years ago.

But the happy expression slowly fades from Bitty’s face, and his eyes grow shuttered as he stands there, hands on Kent’s chest, looking up at him. Quietly, he asks, “What are we doing?”

“I dunno,” Kent says, sudden terror rising up in his throat because fuck, here it is, this is when Bitty realizes that he doesn’t want this after all, that this is a bad idea, that Kent should leave—

Rather than letting Bitty have time to make that decision, Kent kisses him suddenly, backing him up into the wall, right next to the large window that looks out into the forest behind the hotel. He kisses him until Bitty starts squirming beneath his fingertips, whimpering into his mouth, and both of them are hard again as Kent finally kicks off his pants. He ruts up against Bitty again, only the thin material of their boxers between them, and Bitty gasps, dragging Kent’s hands to the hem of his undershirt.

Kent takes the hint and strips Bitty’s shirt off, pulling back to admire him as his abs, chest, shoulders are bared. He leans in and suckles on the side of Bitty’s neck, right where he knows Bitty likes it, and Bitty moans and leans into him—

And that’s when Kent sees it. The tattoo, barely faded, of a martini glass on Bitty’s shoulder.

Kent’s heart skips a beat.

He remembers going with Bitty to get it, holding his hand tightly while Bitty grimaced with every press of the needle, and then later, laughing about the shape Bitty had chosen, growing more solemn and promising Bitty, again and again, that he’d get better.

Bitty said forever, and when he got that tattoo, Kent even started to believe it.

And he tried to drop the liquor. He tried so fucking hard. But it was too little, too late, and then Bitty was gone before Kent and Jack even knew it.

He hadn’t even left a fucking note.

Kent lets out a groan that’s half pain and half stupid fucking arousal. He flips Bitty around, pressing hips into the windowsill and watching as Bitty puts his hands flat on the glass and whimpers—he’d always gotten off a little on exhibition, although none of them ever really discussed it.

And then Kent leans down and bites the tattoo on Bitty’s shoulder, sucking at it until Bitty arches his back and moans, as if this could erase everything they once were, could take back all the drinking and the mean and hateful things Kent once said.

“Ken—nngh,” Bitty moans, and Kent presses up against him, rutting against the cleft of Bitty’s ass.

“Say my name,” Kent growls, because he _needs_ this, God.

“Fuck,” Bitty says, looking back at him with an expression that’s part anger and part agony.

Kent sighs. “Just—please,” he says, watching as Bitty’s breath starts to fog up the window. He has the urge take his finger and write in the condensation, write his love and anguish and all of the other damned feelings that won’t go away, though he doesn’t. Instead, he asks, “Could we pretend we’re in love for one fucking second?”

Bitty’s expression wavers, but a second later, his face hardens, and Kent knows he’s said the wrong thing a-fucking-gain. Bitty twists around, pushing Kent back until his knees hit the bed, and then he strips both of their boxers off before roughly positioning Kent so he’s on his hands and knees. “No more t-talking,” Bitty says, and there’s a quavering in his voice but neither of them acknowledge it.

Kent waits, staring down at the clean white bedspread, as he listens to Bitty rifle through one of his bags.

“Shit,” Bitty mutters to himself.

“Thought you said no more talking?” Kent says like the belligerent shit he is, and Bitty glares at him, tossing a bottle of lube onto the bed.

“I don’t have condoms,” Bitty says. “You?”

“No,” Kent says, looking away. He almost suggests getting Jack to bring them some, but that seems like it would probably lead to the most awkward timeline, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Bitty sighs, sitting next to him on the bed, and Kent sits up on his knees. “Are you clean?” Bitty asks.

“Yeah,” Kent says. “We just got our yearly check-up.”

Slowly, Bitty nods. “Okay,” he says.

Kent squints at him. “Wait. Are _you?_ ”

Bitty turns a brilliant shade of red. “Look,” he says, “I haven’t exactly had sex since I left. Not because I haven’t moved on or anythin’ like that—I just haven’t had time, okay?”

Kent almost believes his excuse, if not for the way Bitty’s eyes are darting around the room.

And fuck.

Bitty never had sex with anyone else.

Bitty never— _fuck._

Kent takes a deep breath. “You gonna fuck me then?”

“That was the plan,” Bitty says quietly.

“Then do it,” Kent says, because fuck.

He wants to feel Bitty after he leaves.

Bitty nudges his shoulder so he gets on his hands and knees again, and then he feels Bitty behind him, smoothing his hands over Kent’s ass and then popping the cap on the lube open. Then there’s the slow, slippery press of Bitty’s finger at his hole, sliding in, making Kent groan.

He hasn’t honestly done this in a while—Jack likes bottoming, says it calms him, and Kent doesn’t care enough to protest either way. But this feels right, Bitty quiet behind him except for the wet sounds of his fingers pressing tight into Kent’s ass, opening him up in a way that burns but still feels so fucking good.

And anyway, any other pain is better than the pain Kent feels when Bitty looks at him with hate in his eyes.

In a way, Kent suspects the pain from Bitty leaving them without a word is part of why he gave up drinking. Because he’s a fucking masochist, and because even though he knows Bitty didn’t leave to teach them a lesson, Kent was still going to fucking _learn_ from those mistakes.

Bitty crooks his fingers just so, sliding against Kent’s prostate, and Kent lets out a desperate moan, reaching down to palm his cock. “’M ready,” Kent groans out, unable to keep himself from pressing back, riding Bitty’s fingers.

Bitty chuckles softly, pulling his fingers away, and fuck, Kent misses him immediately. He flips himself over, lying back gingerly against the pillows, and watches Bitty slick his cock with lube. Then Bitty crawls over to him, looking down at Kent—

“Oh,” Bitty gasps softly.

Kent swallows, pushing himself up on his forearms so he too can look at the tattoo on his upper thigh, a tiny, stylized pie shape that’s safe from most locker room cameras.

“You didn’t…” Bitty says slowly, shaking his head. “You didn’t have that when we were...”

“No,” Kent says, spreading his legs and tugging Bitty between them. “I didn’t.”

Bitty climbs over him, lets Kent hook a leg over his shoulder before he presses the head of his cock to Kent’s entrance and slowly, slowly presses in.

“Fuck,” Kent groans, eyes fluttering slightly as he adjusts to the feeling of being so, so full.

“But when did you…” Bitty starts, trailing off. “Never mind.”

Kent lets the topic go, and it’s just as well, because then Bitty pulls back and slams into him, making Kent arch off the bed—“Fuck, yes, Bitty—that’s so— _fuck!_ ”

“You’re so loud,” Bitty grumbles, but his pupils are dilated and his expression is filled with some sort of wonder.

Kent wishes he could know what Bitty’s thinking.

It’s not long before Bitty starts whimpering softly, unable to stop himself, and at that point Kent nudges him away and flips them over, climbing on top of Bitty so he can ride him. He sinks down and Bitty’s cock and Bitty nearly screams—“Lord, _Kent!_ ”

 _Kent_.

Kent smiles, suddenly feeling breathless but also kind of wanting to cry, and he rides Bitty until Bitty comes wordlessly, sobbing underneath him, fingers scrabbling at Kent’s thigh and brushing over the tattoo Kent had gotten a month to the day after Bitty left.

Then Kent comes too, into his own hand, Bitty’s cock softening inside of him. His lungs are so tight it feels like he’s dying.

And even though they’re so close, Bitty inside of him, lube smeared all up his inner thighs and Bitty’s hands resting lightly on Kent’s hips, Kent’s never felt so far away.

xXx

They buy a house in August. It’s Kent and Jack’s in name but Bitty is smeared all over it and he knows they put him there on purpose, like they dipped their hands in him and left him everywhere they went.

In September, Bitty walks outside the house and directly into a Range Rover parked in the driveway. There’s a ’98 Ford-shaped hole on the street behind the Porsche.

“No,” Bitty says, turning around and staring at his boyfriends’ grinning faces. “No, you didn’t!”

Jack says, “Happy six months?” and Kent is already pulling Bitty against his chest, laughing.

“It’s too _much!”_ Bitty protests into Kent’s neck. “Y’all, I—my truck was perfectly fine!”

“C’mon, babe, you know that thing was like ten miles from breaking down,” Kent argues. Bitty can feel him smile against his temple. “If you ever needed to go somewhere for real you’d never make it.”

Bitty pulls away from him to hug Jack, too. He squeezes him tightly and then lets him go.

“You ridiculous men,” he huffs, heart racing with something that must be affection, and it doesn’t take long for his face to crack into a smile. “Well, who’s comin’ on the test drive?”

They spend the whole day together, driving all over the city and blaring music through the fancy sound system, and they don’t make it back home until the neighborhood is sleeping, lights off in windows and streetlights hiding the stars. Bitty shuts off the engine and stares at his hands on the wheel, at how tightly they’re gripped there. He doesn’t know why.

“You know,” Kent starts, and Bitty forces his eyes up to look at him. “It’s a pretty big car. Lots of room in the back seat…”

Bitty gasps and swats at him. “Kenny, no! We’re not fucking in the new car.”

“It’s a rite of passage!” Kent says. “Zimms, back me up here.”

Jack claps Kent on the shoulder and undoes his seatbelt. “That sounds like a two person venture. I’ll see you inside, eh?”

Bitty mutters, “Oh my God,” and sticks his tongue out at Jack’s retreating form. When he looks back the other way, Kent is waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Oh my God,” Bitty says again. _“Fine._ But we better not get come anywhere, Kent, I swear—”

“Babe, c’mon,” Kent wheedles, already climbing over the center console to flop down in the back. “You know I always swallow.”

Bitty snorts, says, “Ain’t that the truth,” and climbs out of the driver’s side door to re-enter from the back and straddle Kent’s hips. He sinks his weight down and ducks in to kiss him, dragging teeth across his bottom lip to make him moan.

“Christ, I love you,” Kent says, running a hand through Bitty’s hair. “I love you so much, Bits.”

Bitty closes his eyes and kisses him again, slow and aching. The night is dark around them and Kent’s hands are soft, gentle, and it’s so easy to remember. Bitty loves him, loves him, loves him. His voice when he sings and the multiplying freckles on his cheeks and the way he feels between Bitty’s thighs, all the things that make Bitty’s sternum hurt with too much warmth.

“I love you too, honey.” Bitty kisses at Kent’s jaw, sucks on a spot behind his ear. “So much. Today was so good, I’m—I’m so happy.”

Kent’s hand finds the button on Bitty’s jeans and pops it open, fiddles with the zipper before tugging it down, and Bitty whimpers and puts his thigh between Kent’s legs to give him friction. Kent starts working him over slowly, taking his time and rolling his hips with every pass of his hand over Bitty’s dick, and slipping sweet soft things into Bitty’s ear.

“Can’t believe we found you, Bits.” He slips his free hand up to the back of Bitty’s head, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I—that we could have this—someone we love like this. You’re so good.”

 _“Honey,”_ Bitty manages, overwhelmed and drowning in it, in Kent.

“I was scared, you know? When Jack suggested—” Kent cuts off in a moan that he gives to Bitty’s mouth, tongue against teeth. “I didn’t think, like, it was something people _did,_ but you—”

“What?” Bitty asks, like whiplash. He tries to sit up but Kent’s hand is there.

“What?” Kent repeats back at him. He slides his hand down Bitty’s neck to give him the space to move. “I mean, we looked it up before we asked you, kinda—”

“You’ve had boyfriends before,” Bitty says inanely. He’s staring two inches to the left of Kent’s face, at the brand new carpeted floor. “I’ve seen pictures.”

Kent takes just too long to answer. Slowly, he says, “Those weren’t…”

“Weren’t _what,_ Kent?” Bitty cuts in. He thinks he sounds shrill. Hysterical. “Oh my God, did you—”

Kent gets so drunk. He’s always so drunk.

 _“No!”_ Kent insists. He pushes up into a sitting position and grabs at Bitty’s face, jaw between his fingers. Too hard. “Jesus Christ, how could you even—”

Bitty yanks his face away. “They’re _recent,_ Kent—since I’ve known you—”

“Fucking _listen_ to me!” Kent slams a fist back against the car door and Bitty scrambles away from the sound of it. From Kent.

They stare at each other. Kent’s eyes are wet and Bitty’s chest is heaving, like he’s been crying for hours and just noticed.

“I told you he always leaves,” Kent pleads. He’s not crying yet but he might, and the conversation needs to be over before then or Bitty knows he’ll cave. He always caves. “I told you. I never—only when he fucking leaves me. When he doesn’t—when I’m not _his.”_

“When you’re drunk,” Bitty challenges, voice low. “You said he always comes back. But you go out and get drunk and fuck around on him anyway.”

Kent ends the conversation for them. Considerate.

He storms out of the car, slamming the door behind him, and Bitty scrambles to redo his jeans and stalk after him, fuming.

“Does he know, Kenny?” Bitty shoots at him, at his tense back as he’s reaching for the front door of their perfect fucking house. “Does he have—”

“Of _course_ he does!” Kent hisses, rounding on Bitty, hands thrown up. “Why do you think I let myself get caught?”

It does what he wanted it to—Bitty is frozen, speechless, and Kent escapes inside. He slams that door too.

Bitty watches their windchimes shake. He can’t hear them, too much blood in his ears, and it’s that half-realization that brings him out of it and pushes him inside.

Kent is shoving past Jack to reach his keys on the alcove. Jack looks like he needs a pill.

“—you _do,_ Parse?” he’s accusing, and then he turns on Bitty, caught between anger and fear. Bitty’s never the one Parse storms off on. “What happened?”

Bitty ignores him. He’s too busy staring down Parse and asking, “Where the _hell_ are you going?”

Kent barks out a laugh, eyes dry, sneering. “Where do you think, _baby?”_

“You’re—you’re such a—a coward, Kent,” Bitty manages. It’s hard to breathe. “You—you call this _better?_ That you can’t even look at me sober?”

Kent says, “Neither can he,” and slams the door one last time.

Bitty moves to follow him before he can even think, but Jack stops him with an arm around his waist and that’s when the sobbing starts, wracking from Bitty’s chest loud enough that he wonders if Kent can hear from outside. If he cares.

“Let him go,” Jack murmurs, so soft, so sure, his face pressed up against Bitty’s cheek and his arms keeping Bitty against him. “Let him go, it’ll be okay.”

“It’s not,” Bitty gasps. He turns and buries his face in Jack’s sweatshirt, tears soaking into it while he chokes through his breaths. “It won’t be. It’s not, Jack, it’s not—”

Jack guides them onto the couch and holds Bitty tightly, curling around him protectively. “I know,” he soothes. “I know how it feels. But I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

“Tonight,” Bitty points out bitterly.

If it hurts, Jack doesn’t show it. Bitty doesn’t look very hard to see.

xXx

They’re laying side by side in their boxers, and Kent’s staring hard at the opposite wall, trying the best he can not to show the hurt that’s swelling, burgeoning inside him, spilling into his organs and threatening to eat him alive.

Bitty hasn’t said a word since he screamed Kent’s name.

Kent wonders how much he regrets it.

Honestly, he’s just waiting for Bitty to kick him out at this point. So when Bitty opens his mouth, the last thing Kent’s expecting to hear is, “You’re not drunk.”

Kent swallows sharply. “Nah. I don’t, uh, do that anymore.”

Bitty turns to him, looking suspicious. “Like… at all?”

“Not at all,” Kent says, and then he sighs, hitching up the hem of his boxers to show his tattoo again. “The day I got this was the first day I went sober.”

He remembers it so clearly it could’ve happened last week—losing the game the night before, buying a big, expensive bottle of champagne to drown his sorrows in, then coming home to Jack, glaring at him.

They fought. Oh, they fucking fought.

Kent remembers being so fucking angry, but then Jack started putting his shoes on and Kent thought, ‘ _Fuck. Maybe he’ll leave for good this time._ ’

He broke down. Jack did too, a little, and then they both spent a while wrapped in the shame of their loss and the devastating sadness that still lingered from Bitty leaving them.

Kent remembers sobbing, uncorking the bottle of champagne and pouring the whole damn thing down the drain, turning around and clutching at Jack and saying “ _No more, Zimms, no more_ ,” over and over.

The next day Kent got his tattoo, gave their entire liquor stash out to their friends, and dumped Jack’s bottle of pills down the toilet.

Jack started going to therapy within the week.

“So you’ve cleaned up, have you?” Bitty asks, in the most sarcastic voice possible, and Kent wants to scream.

“Yes, I have!” Kent growls, wrenching himself up into a sitting position, as far away from Bitty on the bed as he can comfortably get. “You fucking left and I stopped fucking drinking and Jack started trying so hard to get better—and it’s working. That’s the fucking worst part is that it’s your fucking _fault_ and you don’t even _care_ anymore, and I, I—”

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he looks down and sees tears dripping down onto the fabric of his boxers.

God, he’s so fucking stupid.

He thought he could do this and get away with it, as if it would all somehow end up okay—as if Bitty would ever want him again. As if Kent could fuck him like he’s a stranger and escape unscathed.

Fat chance.

“Look,” Bitty says, and he doesn’t even try to meet Kent’s eyes. “I’ve moved on. I’m getting paid pretty good money to do a job that I love, and I’ve—I’ve had some space to deal with this. It was really fucked up back then, you know that? I was so scared all the time, and you and Jack were fighting all the time, and God, now I’ve finally stopped _needing_ you, and do you know how long that fucking took?”

Kent chokes out a sob. “I’m sorry, okay?” he cries, wrapping his arms around his middle. He’s freezing now, cold and alone. “I’m sorry, I’m so s-sorry.”

Bitty doesn’t respond. Apparently they’ve done enough talking.

He’s not Kent’s anymore. Maybe he never was.

So Kent shakily climbs off the bed and says, “I’ll—I’ll leave you alone now.”

Bitty swallows, and then he finally looks at Kent, and his eyes are red-rimmed too, his mouth trembling. Again, he says nothing.

Kent shudders another sob as he bends down, gathering his clothes off the floor and dressing haphazardly. He’s leaning against the desk, fumbling with his shoes, when he hears Bitty start to cry in earnest.

“W-wait,” Bitty says, his whole body shivering as he looks at Kent. “P-please don’t go away. I know I’m—I’m bein’ mean to you, but—p-please.”

Kent pauses in unknotting his shoelaces, looking up at him. “It’s too late, isn’t it?” he murmurs. “I can’t—I can’t do this with you hating me.”

Bitty gives him an incredulous look, his lip trembling. “I d-don’t hate you!” he says, and then he’s scrambling out of the bed, running over and throwing himself into Kent’s arms. “I don’t hate you. I never hated you, Kenny.”

God. That fucking nickname.

It’s enough to make Kent start crying all over again.

He has no choice but to hold on, to pull Bitty to him as tightly as he fucking can, as if that will somehow fix all the pieces of them that broke when Bitty left him.

“I thought I didn’t c-care,” Bitty sobs. “And then I saw you across the room downstairs, and I—for a second, I forgot why I left.”

Kent shudders out a pained laugh. “And then I opened my fucking mouth, right?”

Bitty laughs too, tears streaming down his face. “I love your mouth. You say such stupid things sometimes, but I still—I still miss you, Kenny.”

Kent’s heart seizes in his chest, and for a moment, he thinks he might explode. “God, I missed you so fucking much,” he says, burying his face in the crook of Bitty’s shoulder and nearly lifting him up off the ground with how tightly he squeezes him.

“I didn’t want to miss you,” Bitty admits, words muffled in Kent’s hair. “I wanted to be okay, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and—” He cuts himself off, pulling away to look at Kent. “And when you t-tried to leave, it hurt so b-bad—”

“I’m not leaving you,” Kent says, sudden resolve firming in his chest. “I—I’m not gonna run away from my problems anymore. When you left, I should have tried to call, or text, or _something_ —but I talked to your old boss and he said you’d even put your two weeks in, and I just. I knew it was over.”

“I don’t think you could’ve convinced me back then,” Bitty says, clutching onto Kent’s arms like stairway railings, holding himself up. “I was too hurt, and you and Jack—I couldn’t do it anymore, with you guys fighting all the time.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, reaching up to card his hand through Bitty’s hair. “We’re better now. I promise. And we—we don’t even have to date or anything, I just. I miss having you around so fucking much.”

Bitty nods, looking pensive. “And… if I did want to date you again?”

Kent’s mouth splits into a cautious grin, and he pulls Bitty closer again, tilting their foreheads together. “I wouldn’t say no.”

“Oh,” Bitty says breathlessly, and then he smiles, wiping at his face. “What about—you and Jack?”

“I love him,” Kent says without hesitating. “And he loves me. And he knows that—that I still love you, and he’s fine with that.”

Bitty’s breath hitches. “You still love me.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, smiling ruefully. “Stupid, huh?”

“No,” Bitty says softly, an adoring expression on his face, and God, Kent loves him. “You waited for me.”

“Course I did,” Kent tells him.

And then Bitty sighs happily and leans up and kisses him, mouth soft and pliant against Kent’s own, and this is everything Kent had been missing for all these years.

It could almost be a dream.

They kiss and kiss, making their way back to the bed, and finally, Kent feels warm.

xXx

It’s December. Snow is falling outside and sticking to the windows, reflecting the lights from the Christmas tree. They have a fire going, crackling in the real-wood fireplace that they practically bought the place for because it made Jack nostalgic and Bitty had never had one, and the entire house is warm.

Kent smashes a plate on the floor.

“Don’t fucking _touch me!”_ he snaps, hands in the air, shards of porcelain between his and Jack’s feet. “I can’t even fucking look at you.”

“You know I’m right,” Jack shoots back harshly. “You can’t handle it! Bitty, tell him—”

 _“Wow,_ Jack! Fucking seriously?” Kent gestures wildly at Bitty, who’s standing a few feet away with his entire body shaking under the throw blanket wrapped around his shoulders. “Bringing Bitty into it? Leave him alone!”

Jack asks, “Why? Afraid he’ll side with me for once?”

“I’m right here!” Bitty says. To remind himself, maybe. He hugs his blanket tighter around himself like it could swallow him.

Kent ignores him. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t play dumb, Parse.” Jack gestures at Bitty too, like he’s an ornament. “You think I don’t get it? I’m not _blind—”_

“Fucking say it then!”

“—you think I don’t know whose tattoo he has on his shoulder?” Jack shouts. His voice crackles like sparks spitting from the fireplace. “You think I haven’t noticed there isn’t one for me? _Fuck!”_

Kent laughs brashly. “Like you don’t do the same thing? You really think I haven’t figured out you pry him for pills after you get your hit from me?”

“Well, Christ, Parse,” Jack sneers, “how else am I supposed to deal with you?”

Kent goes quiet. Everyone does—Jack’s heaving chest and the sudden devastation on Kenny’s face and the way Bitty can’t breathe, won’t ever breathe again.

Snow still falls, the fire still burns.

“Love you too, Zimms,” Kent says, simple as anything, and walks away.

Bitty doesn’t leave that night. Nothing about it is sloppy, knee-jerk.

His life isn’t an emergency room, splatters of blood on the floor and bullets pried out into buckets.

It’s an excision. He draws it in Sharpie first, over the ribs. Catches up on his laundry, folds it extra neatly in a separate drawer. He watches the calendar and he puts in a full two weeks’ notice at his job.

New suitcase for Christmas, an old college friend from out of state, changing the oil in the Rover and scrubbing his fingernails clean, clean, clean. He cries twice. He fucks Kenny in their bedroom and kisses the crook of his shoulder. _I love you, I love you._ He cries again.

The Falconer’s have a five day roadie right after New Year’s. Bitty scrubs himself out of the walls. He thinks about leaving a note, hunched over the kitchen counter with a sticky note and a pen in his hand, and writes _‘I’m sorry,’_ like it will matter. Tears roll off his cheeks and blur the ink, and he looks over at the fridge that’s covered with almost a year of love notes and thinks, _It’ll ruin it._

He crumbles up the note and puts it in the pocket of his jeans. Three weeks later, he’ll find it in a laundromat and think, _Oh, was I?_

The snow crunches under his tires when he backs out of the driveway and he changes the radio station three times while he drives to avoid Kenny’s fucking song, and lets the snow stick to his windshield more than he should.

And he still doesn’t know, after all the driving and the leaving is over, if he was the cancer or the thing on the table.

xXx

Kent knows they still have a lot to talk about. He turns it over in his head as he looks blearily around the hotel room the next morning—he’ll have to have a long talk with Jack later, because the brief text he’d sent just before he fell asleep doesn’t even begin to explain everything. There’s so many things still left to say to Bitty, too.

Really, there’s no guarantee that Bitty won’t change his mind again, and Kent honestly wouldn’t blame him.

But Kent turns his head, smiling softly down at Bitty’s mussed hair, the edge of the martini glass on his bare shoulder half-covered by the sheets, and then Kent feels a fragile bud of hope swelling in his chest.

For the first time since Bitty left four years ago, Kent thinks to himself that maybe, just maybe, they could all be happy.

The sun is coming up, and next to Kent, Bitty sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> Come reblog this work and view others from this fest [HERE](https://pbj-epifest.tumblr.com/) on the PB&J Epifest tumblr page!


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